


A Study in Kink

by KateKintail



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Desperation Play, Dom/sub, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3558962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes even Sherlock must admit astounding mental abilities are not all there is in life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Kink

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not my characters

Sherlock’s mental abilities were unprecedented. Therefore, he could remember quite vividly what life was like before he met Dr. John Watson. Before John, the flat was always too quiet, too empty. Mrs. Hudson could be counted on to stock it with the essentials once a week, to ensure that Sherlock did not starve to death. But, when she was there, she always asked him seemingly absurd questions like why there was a severed hand in the freezer or what the hundred bottles of poison were doing, arranged as they were on the kitchen counter. She would tell him to tidy up or hire a maid if he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself, because she was no housekeeper. She would tell him to clean himself up, too, or no one would want him. Mrs. H’s advice was appreciated, but Sherlock didn’t really find it all too applicable to his own state of being.

Before John, Detective Lustrate enlisted his help in cases, which was a fine way to make a living, really. It was enough to pay for room and board, but only just. He had a bit of family money he was forced to dive into at times when a violin string broke or when he needed to bribe the man at the mortuary to let him have a certain severed hand, upon which he planned on conducting experiments. Lestrade would see to it that he stayed on task during a case, not getting bored and distracted by something more complex than the usual whodunit. And Lestrade made sure that he had everything he needed when working a case—access to files, silence to think. It was nice, but Sherlock knew Lestrade was only doing it because he needed direct access to Sherlock’s brilliance. 

Before John, Mycroft stopped in to see him very nearly every other day. Sometimes he forced Sherlock to get dressed in something fancy so that they might go out for tea, which was silly when Mrs. H prepared an excellent tea every afternoon, and silly because clothing was such an unnecessarily thing to bother with. Sometimes he was cross with Sherlock about something, perhaps it was leaving that severed hand out on the kitchen table too long, untreated, so that it began to smell, or perhaps it was that Sherlock’s smoking habit was getting out of control, causing quite terrible coughing fits that really shouldn’t have bothered anyone but Sherlock. But almost every visit from Mycroft ended with the very dignified but almost always shouted threat that one of these days Mycroft would stop bothering and someone would find Sherlock Holmes dead on the floor of the flat, his own doing. 

Self-destruction, even unintended, was a hard habit to break. Sherlock Holmes would never admit to needing anyone. Yet, he needed external control in his life, needed to be told when and where and what for the everyday things others took for granted. Sherlock had no time to bother with himself. 

But when John arrived, it gave Sherlock someone to bother with. And, once it got that far, the next step was almost entirely inevitable. 

Which was why Sherlock found himself in a submissive stance, kneeling naked on the floor of the sitting room while John sat on the couch and read. John applied a constant touch to Sherlock, reassuring the man that he was being cared for, acknowledged. Sherlock craved attention, always wanted to be in the center of everyone’s world. But now that he had John, he didn’t need Mrs. H or Lestrade or even his brother. They had been helpful, he knew. But they hadn’t understood at all what Sherlock had needed. They hadn’t understood about control.

But John did. And John was a master of it. He understood how Sherlock needed to be forced into his mind palace, not only when they were on a particularly difficult case, but other times as well. He understood that sometimes Sherlock just needed to retreat from the world in order to think properly. And, when Sherlock retreated, things like food and drink were abandoned, so it was up to John to make sure Sherlock did not waste away to nothing. John knew when to send Sherlock deeply into his mind and when (and, more importantly, how) to bring him back again. 

John sat on the couch, a heavy hardcover medical text on his lap, which he read by the gentle amber glow of the lamp beside the couch. One hand lazily flipped through the book’s pages as he read. The other hand petted Sherlock soothingly or rested upon the back of Sherlock’s neck, which was bent forward as Sherlock hung his head submissively. Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind his back, feet crossed at the ankles, though his legs spread just a little to keep him balanced. He was not bound; did not need to be bound. John had been clear about what position Sherlock should be in and Sherlock did not dare do anything contrary.

Sherlock was preoccupied with an equation. He’d started it on a whiteboard a few days back and hadn’t really given it much thought at the time. But now he couldn’t seem to get it unstuck from his brain now. There was something wrong about it that needed fixing, which meant he needed to devote himself to the problem. Seeing how distracted Sherlock had been, John had ordered him into the submissive position, forced him to quiet, to focus. So there Sherlock knelt. For hours. And he wouldn’t get up until ordered to by John. John would know when the time was right. Sherlock depended upon him for that more than anything else. 

Two raised to the power of seven, multiplied by the gravitational constant over the density of any given object, which he was calling D was the easy part of the equation. In fact, it didn’t become complicated until introducing the element of resistance and a curve in a graph that Sherlock found it hard to visualize because it kept changing in his mind, his mental abilities unable to choose just one. So he raced around after himself in his mind, unable to rest, unable to relax. 

As he fought with his indecision, he suddenly realized that there was something else taking place within him. There was a heavy fullness residing in his crotch, a sensation Sherlock recognized with familiarity as the mundane and bothersome need to piss. He had of course encountered such a feeling before. In fact, he considered himself quite good at pissing, having had copious amounts of practice with the act on a daily basis. He was experienced at aiming, in shooting an unbroken stream in just the right arc, perhaps one that might resemble the graphed curves in this equation. Sherlock was good at pissing. But he had never before needed to piss while John had him in submission. 

It wasn’t deep submission, and the urge to wee pulled him out of the peaceful mental state he had been enjoying. He didn’t open his eyes or lift his hanging head. He didn’t squirm. He didn’t even speak up to break the silence to let John know what was happening. He just became aware of the sensation, the need growing within him, and began to apply considerable thought to the problem. 

If it weren’t dealt with, it would only get stronger, Sherlock knew that about it. But what he didn’t know was what he should do about it. He couldn’t very well slip back into submission, covering the whiteboard of his mind with another draft of the complex equation until the pee took it upon itself to flow out of his cock and onto the floor, spraying his knees and making a mess of the thin area rug and wooden floorboards. But he also couldn’t just stand up and retreat to the bathroom, taking his cock in hand and directing it simply at the toilet. John was always perfectly clear; Sherlock was never to leave submission until released. Just this amount of slipping out of the submissive state to contemplate his situation was a technical violation of their rules, though John had no way of knowing what was going on in Sherlock’s mind at the moment. He couldn’t know that the usefulness of the exercise he had implemented was now lost to Sherlock. He couldn’t know that Sherlock needed a wee.

So Sherlock knelt and waited. John had been reading for so long the man was bound to stop soon, perhaps reaching the end of a particularly good chapter on rashes or blood thinners or whatever John was enjoying; from his position, Sherlock could not see the words upon the page or even the cover or spine of the book that would offer a hint to its contents. Or, perhaps, John would become hungry and decide a break was in order. Because he was always touching Sherlock when the man was in submission, he would have to release the man to allow Sherlock to come with him or to stay in the sitting room alone. Perchance the phone might ring; it could be Lestrade needing help on a new case or someone at the hospital needing John to cover an extra shift, and that would break the play, allow Sherlock to stand or, better yet, touch himself, for Sherlock knew that if he wrapped his hand around his cock in one specific way, he would be able to remain in that position for John indefinitely. But he couldn’t do it like this, with his hands clasped at the small of his back.

With all of the possibilities quickly filling Sherlock’s mind and competing for plausibility, the one option that Sherlock tried not to entertain was John getting up for a drink. He didn’t want to think about John filling a glass with tap water and gulping it down while leaning against the sink, the action of a well-trained bachelor. He didn’t want to imagine John getting a glass from the cupboard and rooting through the fridge for the carton of milk or bottle of orange juice, pouring whatever he chose out of the spout in a lovely, steady stream that filled the glass right up to the rim, but no further. He absolutely could not comprehend the image of John uncorking a bottle of wine and setting out two wine glasses, one for him and one for Sherlock to enjoy. Because Sherlock would not enjoy such a thing at the moment. 

He already felt as though he’d had his fill of drink and no more could fit in him. If John were to casually offer him something, Sherlock would be forced to refuse. But if John were to order him to drink something, Sherlock would have no choice in the matter. With his bladder tweaking and twinging with fullness, he would be forced to put glass to lips and let more liquid rush inside him. His only hope would that it would take its time to reach his bladder. Sherlock was sure there was an equation for that, based on how much he’d eaten that day, what his level of activity was, and how terribly full he was already. Unfortunately, he couldn’t figure it out just now. His powers of concentration were gone. 

Sherlock’s mental abilities were phenomenal and unprecedented. His physical abilities, however, needed some practice. Perhaps that was why John still had him here. Perhaps it was not because John hadn’t noticed—because John always noticed—but perhaps it was a test, a challenge. Perhaps John wanted to see just how long Sherlock could hold out. Yes. That made sense. And Sherlock refused to let John down. 

So Sherlock held it, releasing himself from his mind palace but locking up his piss. The desperation and urges did not like this turn of events at all and surged, indicating that a spurt of piss was about to make its way out. But Sherlock gritted his teeth and held on tighter, flexing his muscles, telling his body to listen to him. It was good that he wasn’t near a toilet, as that would be too much temptation for his body to handle. He would see the clean, white porcelain bowl and be compelled to let go into it at once. As long as he stayed here, in the submissive position on the floor, he would be able to stay in control of faculties, he was almost sure of it. 

Except… he preferred when John was in control of him. It wasn’t just convenient, having John tell him when it was time to eat or drink or sleep, it was preferred. For all he was, Sherlock was not easily aroused. In fact, most times he needed to be told when he should have sex or when to take himself in hand and jerk off. It was a bodily function he normally spent no time or effort entertaining. However, it was arousing to him to depend on someone so completely. It was arousing to have someone else more in-tune with your body than you were yourself. It was arousing to see John in such command. It was arousing to finally put his complete trust in someone and have that trust repaid tenfold. 

If it had been anyone but John, Sherlock would be up and pissing in the toilet by now, he was quite certain. But Sherlock held on, for decency, for the respect he had for the submissive position he’d been put in, and for John. 

Unfortunately, he could feel it growing worse with every moment that passed. He was aware of every click of the second hand on the grandfather clock against the far wall, each an excruciating time period that was hardly bearable. His bladder pulled at him, sometimes as though it were expanding or contracting like a balloon blown up by hand and other times flopping about like a dying fish on a riverbank. Many times it seemed like Sherlock’s own breaths had triggered a spasm, so he began to hold his breath. But the heaviness remained, that rich, golden liquid demanding to be released as soon as possible. He gritted his teeth and let out a breath that was far shakier and deeper than he’d intended. 

John, halfway done turning a page, sounded to Sherlock as though he had paused. Perhaps something on the page had grabbed his attention at the last moment and John needed to re-read that passage. Or perhaps he was thinking about what he was reading, wanting to be sure to process all of it before moving on to a new section. If Sherlock had been reading, he’d probably have been done with the entire book by now and would have retained every word of it. Likewise, if John, so incredibly good at control, needed to piss, surely he would be better at it than Sherlock was at this point in time. John would never need to hold himself to keep the piss inside. John would be able to hold off indefinitely, do the physically impossible, and do it with such skill that Sherlock would never even know something was amiss. 

The wind raged outside, a particularly strong gust striking the house, rattling it. The light on the side table flickered; even Sherlock, with his eyes closed, could see that from the quality of darkness upon his eyelids. The wind’s intensity had been growing all afternoon and through dinner. It told of an impending storm. And, in fact, not long following the latest gust, drops of water began to assault Number 221B Baker Street. It was a spitting rain, coming in at harsh angles from the wild wind. The rain struck the roof, making a dull echo. It hit the sides of the house, as if coming at them from both directions. And, worst of all, it struck the windows in a sharp, constant yet unpredictable pattern of wet pattering that made it feel like water was trying to get in and attack Sherlock in revenge for what he was trying to achieve. 

The sound of water was excruciating to endure. It set him on edge, made him want to release everything locked up inside of him—the breath he was holding as well as the urine. The rain would mask the sound, certainly, so he could release the piss in a floor, letting it spray his legs and pool beneath him. He would ruin the floor, but he didn’t care at all for the floor, so long as nothing leaked through the floorboards and into Mrs. H’s flat below; that would be difficult and shameful to explain for him and for John. But, most likely, neither Sherlock nor John would hear the hiss of piss as it rushed out of him, the rain and wind growing impossibly louder as the storm continued. They would, however, definitely smell it—that pungent, unmistakable aroma. Sherlock would never get away with it. John would know he had broken out of submission. John would be cross at him for not obeying. And, perhaps, John would be cross with himself for not realizing exactly how desperate a state Sherlock was in. 

Another page turn came, this one halting in mid-turn as well. Sherlock wasn’t at all sure what to make of it until he heard the book close. John was done reading This session would be over. Sherlock would be forced to get up and, somehow, stride nonchalantly to the bathroom as if there were nothing amiss. That seemed impossible. He had to go far too badly already. He wasn’t sure if he could rise without releasing. He definitely wasn’t sure he could walk without spurting piss at every single step, so that there would be none left by the time he got to the bathroom, it all having been released in a trail behind him. But if John ordered it, he must somehow manage it. Because John never ordered Sherlock to do anything that Sherlock wasn’t capable of doing. John knew Sherlock’s limits and Sherlock’s abilities much better than Sherlock knew them himself. Perhaps, even, this desperation he felt wasn’t desperation at all, but instead just a strong desire of something he would like very much to do, something he wanted, not needed. Or, perhaps, this was merely part of a routine. Feel this twinge in his abdomen and use the loo. Drink several glasses at dinner and, an hour or two later, use the loo. It was a nasty habit, just like smoking, and something John could break him of by cutting him off cold turkey.

Sherlock did not need to urinate. Yes, he had piss inside him, but he did not need to let it out. And, so, it would not come out. The logic was really as simple as that. Sherlock would slip back into submission, where John would never allow anything bad to touch him. 

John stroked the back of Sherlock’s neck and paced a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. A wave of panic rushed through Sherlock. That was John’s way of releasing him, a signal that Sherlock had done well and could slowly pull himself out of his mind palace and back into the world, into John’s embrace, for they almost always hugged afterward, silent touching that made Sherlock feel as safe in this world as he had in his mental one. But Sherlock wasn’t in his palace still. He was outside of it, quite outside. He was out there with the rain—the wet, unrelenting rain—getting wet and about to wet himself accidentally as well. 

“Sherlock,” spoke John’s quiet voice. “You can get up now.” 

But Sherlock couldn’t. He was sure he couldn’t. His bladder would not stand for standing. It would release everywhere, maybe even against John. And uncontrollably wetting John’s pants would be an even larger embarrassment than ruining the wooden floor or pissing a puddle his bare knees rested in. Sherlock couldn’t even risk their customary hug. He had to pee! He wouldn’t have a choice. He would have to let go against John. John wouldn’t just smell it at first, but he’d feel the wet and the warmth and the stickiness and then the cold. He would feel his slacks cling to his skin. He would feel it dribble down and soak into his thigh socks. He would look as though he had wet himself, which surely John, master of control, would never, ever do. And, worst of all, John would feel terrible that he had not prevented it from happening. He should have been more in control of Sherlock, should have known it would happen. And he would feel defeated. Sherlock Holmes could not allow that to happen. 

Stalling for time, Sherlock squirmed. It was undignified, yes, but it was either that or grip himself, and that was far more undignified, to be sure. He tried to pass it off with a faux grimace of stiffness for having been in that position for so long, when really his body felt just a brief second of relief from the movement, the pressure lessening in his belly for a quick instant of time. That was heavenly. 

And suspicious. “Sherlock, are you all right?” 

He wasn’t. John had to have known that. Was John playing with him? Or, perhaps, testing him? This whole thing might, in fact, have been a great test. And Sherlock couldn’t go this far to fail now, he simply couldn’t. So he carefully released the current deep breath he was holding and put on his softest smile, the one he reserved for greeting John when John pulled him out of submission, the one that said he was grateful and obedient all in one. “I’m f-fine.” 

Sherlock’s heart sank. He had tried to make the words smooth, believable, and—above all else—true. But just as he’d spoken, an urge to piss rose up in him that was more intense than any other he’d felt that evening. He had to piss now. Had to piss right NOW! It was coming. So close. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to hold it. Not long. Not long at all.

“My god, Sherlock, what’s the matter?” 

Sherlock had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His cheeks felt hot, flushed and burning red. And his body trembled ever so slightly, partly from the effort of holding and partly from the fear of releasing. 

His hands came apart. He hadn’t meant it to happen, but John had released him, so they were his once again to use as he needed. And what he needed was to hold his cock with not just one but both of them. His left hand would wrap around the base and squeeze. The other would cup the head of his prick with a thumb right over his piss hole to keep even a single drop from escaping. And, if one drop just so happened to break free and drip out, it would do so against his cupped palm, where he would catch it and press it against the hot skin of his cock where it would be indistinguishable from the moist sweat already there. 

But his hands did not make it as far as his cock. They made it to his thighs, where the fingers kneaded into the pale skin there, desperately searching for purchase, for control. Because a small dribble escaped him. He felt it go, only a minor slip-up, but still liquid slipping away from him. As it came out, it felt so wonderful, so natural. But the second it was out and his muscles had clamped down on the rest, he felt so ashamed at what he’d done he could not open his eyes. As he heard the soft tickle of urine hit the floor, a few drops soft into the area rug and a few hitting hard against the floor boards, he knew he could not face John’s disapproving and disappointed face. 

The uncontrollable dribble had been the worst thing that could have happened to him. Now his body yearned for more. Just a single, momentary taste at how wonderful it felt to pee and his body craved it madly. He wanted to wee more desperately than ever. He had to go. Had to go! He squirmed again, trying to shift himself into some position where the need might not be quite so great, or else trying to move so that the movement alone would make his piss slosh about in his bladder, so not all of it would be flowing and pressing downward, desperate to get out. 

“Oh, Sherlock…” The voice was disapproving, yes. And Sherlock’s heart sank, if possible, lower than his belly and his damp cock. His sweating hands slid against his thighs and he gripped his legs, just above the knees, to keep himself steady and keep himself from shaking with shame. 

It was then that the miraculous thing happened. All this time enduring, all these attempts at control, they had all been leading right to this moment when the miraculous thing happened. One moment, Sherlock was swaying forward and backward, not sure how he was going to keep himself from disgrace. And, the next, there was the greatest sense of relief Sherlock had ever felt in his life. He hadn’t released; the rest of the pee was still trapped well inside him. But the miraculous thing was that John sank to his knees in front of the couch and wrapped his own hands around Sherlock’s member. 

His touch sent tingles through Sherlock, tingles of excitement and hope and, perhaps, a little bit of unexpected arousal as well at the carnal meeting of skin against hot skin. But it was his expert grip that not only impressed Sherlock but made him relax for the first time since thing whole adventure had begun. He let out the breath he’d been holding, a long, deep breath that sounded like a sigh of relief. And he opened his eyes. 

John looked concerned; there was no missing that in his eyes. But his expression spoke primarily of sympathy. There was no anger, no disappointment, not even regret. “Is this any better?” asked John, who had to have heard that sigh and, therefore, would have known the answer perfectly well if he’d just thought about it. “Is this helping?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his answer a brief croak, his voice rough for hours of not using it and for all the energy he’d expended on other pursuits. He bit back more words then, second-guessing himself in a way that was not at all usual for him, he spoke again. “Don’t let go, John.” 

“I won’t,” John assured him.

“Don’t let go, or I’ll let the lot out. I won’t be able to help it.” He almost let out a sob, his breath speeding up, starting to panic, and his muscles endured another spasm and his body tried to indicate this was unnatural, that he should just let go. But he wouldn’t—and couldn’t, not with John helping. He couldn’t let John think this wasn’t helping because it was, oh, it was. The pressure John applied was utter perfection, just the right amount in just the right places. Sherlock couldn’t have held himself this well, he was sure. It was like all that waiting had not been about pissing at all, but waiting until John was free to do this for him, to hold him and hold back his piss and make everything not only better but perfect. Sherlock bent his head forward even more and rested his forehead upon John’s shoulder. The sweater was soft and warm. Sherlock imagined that, if he lifted it in a while, he would have lines upon his forehead to match the sweater’s knitted pattern, like John rubbing off on him… as John rubbed him. 

“That’s it: relax. It’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” John was kneading now, just a little, so he didn’t release his grip. “I’m not letting go, I promise.” He squeezed and released, as if knowing somehow exactly what Sherlock wanted his hands to do. Hands that healed when they were at the hospital. Hands that took notes of everything Sherlock did when they were on a case. And hands that gripped him now and kept his piss from flowing out. John could keep it back forever like this, Sherlock was certain. Fuck all logic, fuck inevitability. This touch was miraculous and would keep him safe and dry and in control.

Because he hadn’t been in control before, he knew that now. It had always been him waiting for John. That was how it had been now, with this piss that wanted out and would not come. And that was how it had been for his entire life, with everyone trying to tell him what to do and how to conduct himself until John showed up and made it happen effortlessly just by being there. All his life, he’d been waiting for someone who understood him fully and cared about him for him, not just his mind, someone who understood what he needed both mentally and physically. Someone who would kneel in drops of Sherlock’s own piss and hold his cock for him and tell him it was going to be all right. And make Sherlock believe it was true. 

“I’m not letting go,” John soothed again. Sherlock had heard perfectly well the first time and hadn’t needed the repetition, but more words came this time. “I’m not letting go until you tell me.”

At once, Sherlock’s head whipped back into place. He stared down at John, incredulous, almost scandalized that John would even entertain such a notion. Was this wonderful man with his miraculous grip actually inferring that, after all this, Sherlock would decide to let the piss out? As if he would merely grow bored at this game of self-control and decide to give up, give in, to lose so spectacularly that everything he’d had to drink all day would be lost in one disgusting flood?

John ducked his head just a little, breaking contact with Sherlock’s. In a soft voice, he said, “It isn’t always about you, Sherlock.” 

This had been a hard lesson for Sherlock to learn. He wasn’t sure, even now, years after John Watson’s arrival, that he had truly learned it yet. It was the sort of lesson he knew existed and knew could crop up at any time. But he had trouble remembering it and trouble seeing it coming. John would sometimes say it if Sherlock had spent a night out of bed, downstairs with his test tubes, working toward a breakthrough while John was thoroughly unproductive by being asleep. Or he would say it if Sherlock had been busy with a musical composition and missed the dinner out they had planned on, causing John to storm home looking angry while Sherlock played his violin, stunned and uncomprehending because dinner time happened every day so there would be one tomorrow and the next day and the next in fact. But Sherlock didn’t see how the phrase could be applied just now.

Sherlock had a powerful need to pee. This was his urge, not John’s. This was his body, not John’s. 

Or was it? He thought back to the moment John had put him in submission. It had been like every other time. He had told Sherlock to assume the position and, once Sherlock was in place, John had touched him. He had moved Sherlock forward a little, adjusted his head to hang down more, spread his legs wider for him to maintain a better balance, and petted Sherlock’s hands to relax the grip. He had created in Sherlock precisely what he wanted from him. And Sherlock had allowed it, of course, because he needed John to be the one in control. He had submitted for his own sake, knowing it was good for him. 

But he had given his body over as well, because John knew better what to do with it. So what could John’s words mean now? Did he want Sherlock to wee like some desperate little school boy who doesn’t understand his own limits? Did he want Sherlock to try to get to the bathroom, dancing and squirming down the hall and then emptying himself into the toilet? Did he want the accident because his hands were getting tired of holding or because he was growing impatient? And could it even be called an accident if piss was let out deliberately?

“No,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “Hold it, John. Hold it for me just like this. I’m going to piss all over if you don’t. Please. Don’t let me wee. I have to go so badly. Don’t let me.” It sounded like begging, he knew this. And he knew there were tears behind his eyes during the plea. Any longer and he might start crying piss, it felt like he had that much inside him, though he knew that was not possible, anatomically. 

John cocked his head slightly, studying him. “You don’t want to wee?” 

Sherlock shook his head even more vehemently. “No… no, I don’t. I don’t want to pee all this out. I don’t want to lose control when I’m not in the loo. I don’t want to disappoint you.” 

“Ah…” That was a sound of understanding, and it was followed by John’s lips upon his, soft, reassuring, sweet. Sherlock closed his eyes for it, taking it in entirely. This was precisely how Sherlock liked kisses best—with lots of emotion, any emotion. He liked to analyze the kiss, to figure out what John meant just by this single touch. “But, Sherlock, you would disappoint me if you didn’t wee right here.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open at once. This made no sense. It was completely incongruous, inconsistent, absurd, even. A gentleman was simply not meant to pee freely whenever he felt like it, on the floor or into a glass or a vase or an umbrella stand. Nor did a lover ask this of his partner, inviting such a mess and then having to clean it up, swearing and growing bitter because of it. Sherlock did not understand. It was all planned well in his mind. He would kneel here forever and John would stay here in front of him, holding him. That was their arrangement. That would last forever. There would be no misfortune, no destruction, and no embarrassment. Just John with his hands squeezing just right in this miraculous way. 

“I want to let go,” John said, rattling Sherlock again. “I want to let go, which will in turn cause you to let go. And I want to see that.”

“You want to see me embarrass myself?”

“No.” John’s voice was firm. “No need for embarrassment. I want to see how good you look when you’re releasing all that pee. I want to see it pour like a beautiful yellow fountain from you. I want to see you humbled before it, finally putting your body first… and then my body right behind it.” John looked down, gesturing to the unmistakable tent in his own trousers that, until this moment, Sherlock had somehow managed to miss. “It’s not always about you, Sherlock. Sometimes it’s about me.” 

Sherlock blinked, astounded.

“Will you do this for me, then? Will you let your wee go? Will you go all over the floor… and me, if I happen to get in the way? Will you piss your brains out for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared at John for a good, long minute. Then, trembling, Sherlock’s hands slid inward along his thighs and up. Then slid over John’s hands, not caressing so much as reassuring. Fingers bent, curved, and eased John’s grip. 

At once, the urge to pee was so intense Sherlock could almost not stand it. It made him double over, uncontrollably, wincing. He had to pee so terribly, but the urge was so strong and overpowering it wouldn’t let him breathe, let alone relax his muscles. He tensed up, bracing himself. He was so nervous. He couldn’t let this piss out, he just couldn’t. It hurt and burned inside of him, and he desperately wanted to do this for John. But he couldn’t make it happen. He tried to convince himself it was all right, but his body wouldn’t believe him. The pee wouldn’t come.

And then John was closer, trapping Sherlock’s cock between their bodies. Sherlock’s legs scissored on the edge of the rug, knees burning from the friction, as his body refused to give in and let go. He thrust his pelvis forward as John’s arms wrapped around him to hug him close, rubbing his needy cock against John’s front. The sensation and pressure of their bodies together kept the piss back beautifully, not quite as skillfully as John’s grip, but close and different. “I can’t,” Sherlock pleaded, thrusting desperately against John. “If I let go… it’ll go all over. It’s so wrong.”

John’s hand stroked the back of Sherlock’s head. Warm breath caressed Sherlock’s ear with the words, “I’m telling you that it’s not wrong. I’m telling you that this is the way it should be. You won’t have to see it. You won’t have to clean afterward. You won’t have to do anything but relax and give in, finally. I’ll take care of you.”

Sherlock whimpered, a most undignified sound he couldn’t believe he’d made, except for the fact that the sound was reflective of everything he felt. He couldn’t let go. There was just so much pee. John didn’t understand. Once he started going, he wasn’t ever going to be able to stop. He couldn’t do this, not even because John wanted it. John didn’t understand how much pee there was. He couldn’t do this!

“Sherlock…” John leaned back only slightly, forced Sherlock’s head down, and kissed the top of it. “I understand. I can see how much you need this. I order you to relax and pee.” 

A kiss followed by an order. Sherlock couldn’t do this, but now he had to. 

With his cock hidden between their bodies where he couldn’t see it, and body arched back just a little to release the pressure and then forward to bury his face once again against John’s sweater, Sherlock felt his muscles contract. They gave one last, desperate attempt at trying to hold on then all the effort and control flowed out of him along with all his pent-up piss. 

Then feeling was beyond glorious. He couldn’t make it stop now even if he’d wanted to. It leaked out slowly at first, hesitantly directing wee into John’s trouser leg, then the crotch area, as Sherlock adjusted himself. The fabric soon grew warm and damp and heavy between them. But then John hurriedly took his hands from Sherlock’s back, fumbled with his belt, button, and zip, and then Sherlock was pissing into John’s pants. The cool, soft white cotton felt heavenly against Sherlock, and he rubbed himself against it, feeling it, too, warm as it soaked in all his pee. 

He didn’t have to open his eyes and look down; Sherlock could imagine what it must look like, the white turning pale yellow and darkening until it was translucent and John’s cock would be visible through the fabric. He peed and peed, exposing more of John as John moaned and sighed almost inaudibly, unable to express his desire. He’d always been so good at telling Sherlock how he felt during their moments of intimacy, because Sherlock needed the feedback, needed to know he was doing something correctly. But John was almost too overcome with pleasure now to make any sound at all. 

The stream was getting stronger now, growing comfortable flowing out of Sherlock. What had taken so much effort to start now was an unconscious delight, something Sherlock no longer needed to think about. He relaxed his body and his mind, trusting in the sensation he was beginning to experience. The pressure in Sherlock’s abdomen slowly began to lessen and the release brought with it a sort of euphoria that made him gasp as well, his breaths mingling with John’s in the room as the wind and rain howled outside. 

John hastily moaned and shoved his pants down. And Sherlock directed his hot piss right onto John’s dick. Without the clothes to absorb it, wee spurted out, coating John and then splashing onto the floor. It was louder than the rain pummeling the flat. It was louder than their collective gasps. It sounded quite beautiful—not the sterile sound of piss hitting water in a toilet bowl… the sound of piss going free, spilling out unhindered, unchecked, uninhibited. 

Sherlock lifted his head, threw his head back, and enjoyed it. He enjoyed the way it felt streaming out of him. He loved the way his cock felt against John’s, leaking the golden goodness all over. He loved the freeness and naturalness of being naked and pissing in his flat with his lover basking in it and all that pee coming out of him. 

“Had to go so bad,” Sherlock remarked, between gasps. “Can’t help it. Can’t hold it.” 

John’s reply was an unintelligent “Nnneguhh!” and he forced his hand between them, fingers dancing briefly against the head of Sherlock’s cock, the velvety head and the soft stream. Then the hand gripped his own cock and began pulling. “C-can’t help it,” John echoed, sounding every bit as desperate as Sherlock had felt. 

He didn’t have to beg Sherlock not to stop. There was more piss inside the consulting detective than was needed for an already horny John to finish the job on himself. A dozen strokes with his hand and cock directly beneath Sherlock’s beautiful flood and he was done for, coming eagerly with streams of his own, white and long and grateful. 

John latched back onto Sherlock when it was over, shaking a little himself as the piss just kept coming and coming. “Sorry,” Sherlock whispered. “I can’t… stop. So much wee… so much. I really had to go…”

“Keep going,” John encouraged. “It’s all right. Piss it all out, Sherlock, every last drop.”

Sherlock nodded. “I had to go so badly. I wasn’t going to last much longer if you hadn’t given me that order.” He rubbed his cock against John’s front, moving it over slightly in order to wet John’s other thigh, turning dry to wet and making them both sigh. “I needed this. So badly. I needed to wee.” 

“I know.” John kissed his neck and cheek and stroked his head. “You’re so good.” 

“Feels so good.” 

“Yes,” John agreed. “It does.”

Against both their wishes, the stream began to weaken. Sherlock tried his best to push, but his muscles were weak from so much use and couldn’t seem to understand the command to push instead of hold. So he just let the pee go freely, as it wanted to, dribbling and then dripping out, until finally it was over. 

And then, just as Sherlock’s mind recovered enough to think about the rug and the floor and John’s soggy clothing, John caught him in such a kiss that even Sherlock’s mind had to be put on pause. Eyes closed, head cocked to the side, Sherlock reveled in the sensation that was John’s intense and overwhelming appreciation. 

Working on his experiments invigorated Sherlock. Solving a difficult case excited him. But those were nothing compared to the satisfaction he got from truly satisfying Dr. John Watson.


End file.
